


CXLVII

by badwolfgrapesoda



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:10:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4505406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfgrapesoda/pseuds/badwolfgrapesoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla has too much self-respect to regret what she did. Set at some point slightly after Episode 16. Canon-compliant (I think).</p>
            </blockquote>





	CXLVII

It’s better this way, really. _Really_. This way Carmilla doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to _be_ anything for anyone, and that’s something she hasn’t known for a long, long time. Maybe not ever. It’s good to feel like she is not lying to anyone – to Maman, to Elle, to Laura, to Will. It’s good to be lying stretched out on the chaise with a good book and a snack she doesn’t have to disguise in a goddamn sippy cup.

Carmilla tilts her wrist and watches dark red liquid swirl in the wine glass; a potent cocktail of wine and blood. It’s a million times better than that stale, refrigerated crap she used to hide in the soy milk container. She finishes her book undisturbed and adds it to the teetering pile next to the chaise, too comfortable to go and put it back in its proper place.

The idiots and Laura are out of the house ( _her_ house – everyone seems to forget that), probably plotting her sister’s demise. As if Mattie could be so easily killed. Carmilla swirls her blood-and-wine concoction again, holding it up to the light and watching how the faint streaks of sun shine through it, before draining the dregs. Her body feels comfortably full and buzzy; when she turns her head, the room doesn’t quite spin, but moves slower than usual, as though the rest of the world had forgotten to play along. Carmilla sets down the empty glass next to the wine bottle at her side and closes her eyes for a nap, pressing her face into the cushions to avoid the sunlight. A familiar, comforting smell fills her nose – cookies and vanilla. Laura. Groaning, Carmilla shoves the offending cushion onto the floor and curls into a ball, the warmth of the room and her full stomach quickly pulling her into a state halfway between dreaming and wakefulness.

*

Carmilla’s ears twitch. The night is heavy and starless, so black that she can see nothing, even with her panther’s eyes. Cool grass tickles the pads of her feet; a slight wind ruffles her thick fur. She can feel more than hear the movements of small scurrying things in the undergrowth, rabbits probably, and mice. Slipping forward, Carmilla finds the grass turning to dry leaves and pine needles in a thick layer over hard-packed dirt. If there was a glimmer of light in the sky, she would probably see the black silhouettes of trees, their foliage spreading out like open umbrellas. Treading whisper-soft, she catches the scent of something much larger than a rabbit, something that smells like warmth and life.

She had thought that she wasn’t hungry, but as the enticing smell drifts past her nose, Carmilla’s muscles coil with excitement and bloodlust hits the back of her throat. She holds back a growl and follows the trail, her body a-quiver. Tiny invisible insects complain in her ears and attempt to fly up her nose. The earth beneath her feet grows steadily marshier and everything smells of damp. Suddenly clods of muddy ground crumble under her weight, and Carmilla slides with a small splash into freezing water that comes halfway up her legs. Panic grips her. She scrambles back to firmer ground, completely disorientated. She huffs irritably as she realises that she has lost the trail of her quarry. Carmilla squats at the edge of the marshland and licks her shoulder thoughtfully. Should she go back and try to relocate the scent, or has the creature thrown her off by crossing through the water?

Carmilla freezes as a dim light illuminates her surroundings – the moon has come out. The glow is cold and unfriendly. Something moves out of the corner of her eye, and Carmilla’s body tenses. It’s her prey; a small deer, probably a doe, stepping delicately over the unsteady ground, barely fifty metres away. Carmilla’s mouth fills with saliva. The deer is healthy and strong; she can almost taste the succulent meat in her mouth, the sweet lifeblood pouring down her throat. She tenses, preparing to pounce, but rears back as darkness obscures her vision. Carmilla can feel the brush of wings against her fur; black feathers sweep past her face. A warning. Her sister’s command-scream fills her head, scraping against her skull: ‘ _Stay away. Not for you_ ’. Carmilla growls and snaps at the torrent of shadows rushing over her. She’s not yet old enough to project her own thoughts this way, but the panther’s rasping roar is a clear enough answer: ‘ _Go away, Mattie. Mine_ ’. The seething mass retreats, and Carmilla wriggles in satisfaction.

And then she notices the deer. It’s still there, and now it’s staring right at her. Carmilla ducks her head in confusion; surely the amount of noise she had been making would’ve scared it off. Perhaps it’s deaf. Beneath her hunger, unease curls in Carmilla’s stomach. This prey is not acting like prey should. It even smells different from normal prey – the fear that usually swirls around her victims like an aura is missing.

So if it’s not prey, what is it? Carmilla tries growling at it, to see if it will go away, but the deer simply continues to stare at her with eyes as dark and inescapable as tar pits. Then she tries ignoring it, to no effect. Cautiously, Carmilla backs away, but stumbles to a halt when the deer begins to walk towards her, calm and confident. Carmilla whines softly and crouches close to the ground, flattening her ears in submission. Spiky reeds brush against her belly.

The deer continues to approach her. There’s something about its eyes that makes Carmilla want to run far, far away, and not stop until she finds somewhere safe to curl up and hide. She makes herself even smaller, forcing herself not to move a single muscle. The deer is right in front of her now. Warm exhalations puff against the top of Carmilla’s head. Carmilla feels as though the whole world has stopped; nothing even dares to _breathe_.

And then the deer just steps back, turns and begins to walk away as though it had suddenly lost interest. Panic swells in Carmilla’s chest. As much as the not-prey deer had cowed her, seeing it disappear into the darkness fills her with a sick fear. She yowls plaintively and chases after it, but it has vanished, seemingly without a trace, and Carmilla is left searching in the marshes until she is stumbling with exhaustion.

*

Carmilla sits up shakily, unsure of what had woken her. She rubs her eyes and groans quietly. Her mouth tastes like wine that has been left in a cellar for a few centuries sealed with a wet cork. She is debating the pros and cons of getting up and making another blood cocktail when she hears shuffling in the hallway, and abruptly flings herself back onto the chaise lounge and grabs a book from the floor, pretending to be engrossed in her reading. The familiar footsteps are those of a Laura Hollis who has had a tiring and unfruitful day. She can hear the midget human muttering to herself under her breath, “Stupid freaking Board… in the name of Rupert Giles, why can’t they listen to reason… I should just go in there and –”

Laura’s monologue-ing grinds to a halt when she spots Carmilla. “Oh… you’re here,” she mumbles. Carmilla answers with a grunt, too emotionally exhausted to bother with their usual banter.

Pursing her lips irritably, Laura marches away from the ridiculous caution tape barrier, her back stiff. Carmilla can feel Laura’s glare boring into her and determinedly keeps her eyes fixed to the page in front of her. Her gaze skims over the words without taking in a single one. Eventually, the sense of being watched fades and Carmilla relaxes slightly. She slouches further down into the chaise and begins to read in earnest: ‘Past cure I am, now reason is past care/ And frantic-mad with evermore unrest/ My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are –’ Suddenly realising what she’s reading, Carmilla throws the book down in disgust. ‘ _Love poems. Spare me the naivety of humanity._ ’ The urge to be downing more alcohol rises like bile in her throat, and Carmilla snatches up the wine bottle from the floor, swallowing without bothering to pour it into a glass. After all, it’s not as though she has anyone to impress.

Mattie doesn’t come by that evening, so when Laura’s side of the living room begins to fill up with a surplus of redheads, Carmilla takes the wine with her and wanders out into the cold blue dusk. Over to her right, a mess of churned-up earth marks where the library used to be, and beyond that, there’s the pit that entraps the Lophiiformes and nearly took her life. Carmilla trudges over to it and sits on the edge, dangling her feet into the abyss, swigging from the now nearly-empty wine bottle. Behind her, there are flickering lights and life and people, filled with childish dreams. People that talk and laugh with their friends and lovers, thinking the world will let them keep them. People that sometimes shiver and snuggle closer in their beds, a little afraid, but in the end are hopeful, believing in a better world. While she sits out in the cold.

It’s better this way, really. This way Laura gets to gambol around in her little black-and-white fictional universe, and Carmilla doesn’t have to feel like she’s navigating a moral minefield with every step, every word, every kiss. This way she doesn’t have to be always tucking some part of her away, doesn’t have to censor herself like she’s hiding from the fucking Thought Police. This way she can be frank, even if that’s something no one seems to particularly like. For someone so obsessed with righteousness and justice, Laura sure has a problem with being told a few home truths.

The bottle is empty. Carmilla rolls the neck between her fingers for a moment before letting it fall, down, down, down into the black. She hopes it smashes on the anglerfish’s face. She hopes it _hurts_. She sits and waits until all the lights in her mother’s house ( _her_ house; Maman is dead) have gone out, waits until everyone is asleep so no one gets to see her creep onto her own property like a thief.

The wooden floorboards are creaky and Carmilla has to step carefully so as not to wake everyone up. She’s too tired to be loud and obnoxious – most people think it’s effortless, but it takes brain power to come up with that much sarcasm. On her way to the kitchen for a midnight snack, she passes Laura’s desk – and Laura, fast asleep with her face pressed against the keyboard of her laptop. Carmilla pauses. Laura is a lot less annoying when she’s not talking, and resting like this she doesn’t look like a human hurricane. She looks small and a little bit sad, and achingly beautiful. Without thinking, Carmilla reaches out to brush a stray hair away from Laura’s face, but stops herself just in time. Carmilla knows how these stories end – they’re either heartrendingly tragic or horribly trite. It’s better not to dream of something that looks better in the abstract. And if living honest sometimes starts to feel uncomfortably synonymous with drinking away her sorrows, well, that’s just the price she has to pay.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The poem that Carmilla reads is Sonnet CXLVII (147), by William Shakespeare. Check it out, it's one of my favourites.  
> 2\. After I wrote the part about Carm sneaking back into the house, I realised that she could've just poofed herself in. But who needs logic, right?  
> 3\. Carmilla and Laura never do what I want them to, the little shits. So this story turned out different than I expected, but I hope y'all enjoyed it. Please take a moment to let me know what you thought.


End file.
